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Casey paused a moment. "Let me sleep on it."
"Very wise, my boy," Drinkwater said, chuckling. "Yes indeed, you sleep on it tonight. Heh, heh."
Casey entered his room. From out of the shadows Phoebe came toward him, letting her long sable hair tumble down to the brown foulard dress with the white polka dots. Only then did Casey realize that she didn't have the brown foulard dress with the white polka dots on anymore. "I thought you'd never come up, Timothy," Phoebe said with a sigh.
Later, when Phoebe had dressed, she pulled a $500 bill out of her purse and left it on the bedside table. "So, we're in business...with my uncle," she said. And Casey smiled and nodded.
He felt rotten, dirty and deceitful, and wondered when he could see her again.
Late the next afternoon, back in Boston, Casey and Flossie walked along the Charles. They'd come up from Nantasket with Phoebe and Drinkwater and had checked into the Parker House, where they planned to spend the night before heading out to Mudville the next morning for the big game. It was a glorious day—the emerald grass, the sculls and sails upon the water, the promenading swells from the Back Bay—but Casey knew that none of the ladies of Boston was as gorgeous as his Flossie.
Drinkwater had arranged for a new outfit to be waiting for Flossie at the hotel: Blue-and-white-striped silk it was, and her splendid figure filled it like one of those sails on the Charles. The dress had wide cuffs and a deep collar of white linen. And there was a leghorn straw sailor with a blue band and flowing white ribbon. Parasol to match. "You're the loveliest, Flossie," Casey said. "There's not a man on the esplanade who's not trying to catch your eye."
"Pshaw. No one would buck a gentleman so pleasing to the eye as you," Flossie said, giving a little flip to her parasol. She was learning quickly how much more effectively she could flirt when she was well dressed. "But, ah, I must be watching you, I must."
"Oh, how's that?"